


All Time Low

by callievalpoli



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Family Feels, M/M, Nobody is Dead, Safer Sex, Surprises, Teacher-Student Relationship, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-03 12:45:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12748581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callievalpoli/pseuds/callievalpoli
Summary: Derek needs to let off some steam before the full moon.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is extremely unbeta'd. It's also the first thing I've written in a year. Please avoid negative feedback! Thanks!!!

Derek runs his hands through his hair, no doubt ruining the perfect coif Cora had left him with. The line to the Meet Market is just long enough for him to reconsider going out yet again. But the bouncer goes through the line of giggling twenty-somethings with a speed that belies his half-lidded eyes and heavy build. And then it’s Derek handing over his ID despite the touch of grey at his temples. 

The Meet Market is a couple towns over from Beacon Hills. The one real difference is, it’s in a college town. So instead of a bar filled with the depressed and the desperate, the Meet Market is full of excited co-eds ready for just about anything.

And with the full moon just a night away, Derek needs desperately to let off some steam.

The club is the kind of over-loud that gives him a headache in his class room, but in this environment, it’s the _just_ loud enough kind of loud. The spotlights weave through the crowd of packed bodies in a way that almost heightens the mystery, picking out a pale clavicle, smoky eyes, bright white teeth in a crooked smile.

Derek weaves his way to the bar, not because he wants a drink, but because it stands out too much if he doesn’t have one in his hand. “Miller Lite,” he says as soon as he has one of the bartenders’ attention. 

There’s the sound of a snicker at his elbow. He turns to see a pair of big eyes crinkling merrily at him. “Miller Lite, huh. Do you need a sippy cup with that?” The guy has a highball in his hand filled to an inch or so with something amber. It doesn’t match his youthful (is he twenty one? really?) face or his shirt--Derek never wants to know someone who thinks a shirt advertising mustache rides is a good idea.

Derek snorts, and turns back to the bartender to pay for his beer. He takes his bottle and makes his way to the small tables surrounding the dance floor. He’s just setting in to try and pick his prey when he hears a too familiar voice a bit too close to his shoulder. “So, let me guess. You like to _watch_.”

Derek _doesn’t_ tackle the guy. He _doesn’t_ get him in a headlock and bend his fingers back to that point--you know, the point. He _doesn’t_. But he may picture it a little. 

What he does do is turn with a beleaguered sigh and say, “Okay, Buddy. What do you want?”

“You to never call me Buddy again?” he says with a smirk. He waits as if he’s waiting for his own personal laugh track. “Okay. Come on! That was a good one!” 

Derek rolls his eyes.

The guy answers with his own eye roll. “Okay. Fine. I just wanted to give you your change.” He pulls a crumpled ten and five from his pocket. 

Derek wonders if this is one of those things... One of those things that not having his parents past his puberty… One of those things that normal people do--that normal people learn from their normal parents. “I, uh. It was a tip.”

“I left your tip,” the guy says. “I left your very generous dollar fifty tip. Someone who was less of a prick, I’d leave a dollar. Someone who was nice to me, I’d take the whole thing and leave his tip for him. For you, I left a really good tip.” 

Derek says, “My sister’s a bartender.” It’s true, in a way. Cora bartends at the highest end restaurant in Beacon Hills. She does it for the job experience because ‘only total losers don’t get a job before graduating college, Derek, geez.’ She definitely does _not_ do it for the tips.

“O--kay.” The guy scrunches his nose. There’s a pause in the conversation, while the two of them look at the crumpled bills in the guy’s hand. Derek opens his mouth to speak when the guy says, “But you have to admit. Still weird. Unless you’re like a billionaire. Are you a secret billionaire?”

Derek swallows past the lump that suddenly appears. “No,” he says, and thinks, ‘just millionaire.’ “I’ll just,” he says, and takes the bills. He shoves them in his pocket, and turns back to his table. Only a group is standing around it now, frat-bro looking guys who are making boneheaded comments about every girl they lay their eyes on. And one of them is drinking his beer.

For a second thinks about looking for another table, getting another beer that he won’t drink and trying to feel anything but pathetic. But he is pathetic--on the plus side of thirty and still going out to clubs to hook up with someone instead of having a partner. And just like that, he doesn’t have it in him to do this. He doesn’t have it in him to try and find a non-skeevy way to have a one-night stand with someone who’ll probably only be into it for his body. 

He turns to leave. He can go for a run instead. That’ll make him burn enough energy to prevent him from being a ‘shitty shithole,’ as Laura so eloquently puts it. Only the guy--the _kid_ \-- is still there. “Jesus. What assholes.” He unsticks the bar napkin from where it’s wrapped around his glass, balls it up and hits the guy drinking Derek’s beer right between the eyes. 

“Hey!” the guy says. And then he’s balling up his fists. And then his friends are balling up their fists.

Derek’s getting ready to get dragged into a bar fight when the kid grabs him by the wrist and tugs him through the crowd. The kid’s like magic, finding every hole between two bodies in the bar. At the door, the kid hands his glass to the bouncer and says, “Thanks,” as he flies past him. 

The kid’s so fast, they’re almost upon the Camaro when Derek sees it on the dark street. Derek tugs back for the first time and says, “Hey. Get in.”

The kid stops and turns. And then he does it again, as if for comedic effect. “Dude!” 

Derek sighs and opens the door, manhandling the kid into his car. He slides over the hood, hearing shouts from behind him, and then he’s landing in the driver’s seat, starting the car as he shuts the door. “Drive. Drive. Drive!” the kid says.

They’re a couple blocks away, when the kid starts laughing. And, for some reason, Derek finds himself joining in. “That was awesome,” he says, and when Derek looks at him, he’s staring back at Derek. “Who _are_ you?”

“Derek,” he says, offering his hand to shake. 

“Derek.” He shakes, then he says, “Stiles.”

“Stiles,” Derek says, arching his eyebrow.

“Dude, I thought you were some kind of weirdo freak or something. How the hell did you get this sweet ride?”

Derek shifts his shoulder up in a half shrug. “It’s my sister’s.” 

“Um, where does your sister work that she bartends, regularly gets tips of three hundred percent, and can afford to own a Camaro?” 

“Not the same sister,” Derek says. 

“Not the same sister,” the kid--Stiles--mimics. “Hey what do you wanna do now? I think I might have ruined your night. Do you want to hit another club? I can wingman for you. I wingman with the best of them.”

“Ah--” Derek says. And no. That’s the very farthest thing from what he wants to do right now. The adrenaline is finally wearing off and he feels shaky, almost feverish. He wants to go home and curl up in bed with a cup of tea and a heating pad and maybe a book. 

“Why were you out, anyway? Were you out to celebrate? Did I ruin a big night?” Stiles says. 

Derek opens his mouth to say some kind of nothing answer that will cut off this line of questioning. But just then, a stream of moonlight hits him and he finds himself saying, “I was out to get laid.”

And Stiles says, “Jesus, I know. I’m so horny. I feel like my balls are trying to make off for continents unknown.” There’s a pause, and Derek’s about to ask Stiles where he’d like to be dropped off, when Stiles says, “I don’t suppose--” and there’s just a beat before there’s a hand covering his on the gear shift.

And Derek’s straight. Ostensibly. He doesn’t do men. _Generally_. And he turns to tell Stiles that, nicely, because, well, Derek’s built. He doesn’t want to scare the kid or anything. 

But.

But the moonlight is falling pale across dark hair, and an almost _too_ pretty mouth, and eyes that are big, so big and innocent. _So_ innocent. His teeth try to lengthen in his mouth. 

He grinds his teeth and Stiles’ mouth falls open in a way that is truly obscene and Derek finds himself saying “Your place or mine.”

*

Derek has had sex with men before. He has. Back when he was in college. Back when there was a whole state between him and his sisters and (especially) his uncle. 

He’s not _ashamed_ about sleeping with other men. But he also doesn’t want to exactly broadcast it for the world (especially his uncle) to see. 

Which is how they end up in a hotel. 

Derek goes in on his own to pay. The receptionist gives him the stink eye, but she doesn’t say anything, just goes back to chewing gum and flipping through a magazine as soon as he walks away. 

When Derek gets back out to the car, Stiles is gone. For a minute, Derek’s mind goes to his third period Contemporary American Lit. To the time they glued the chalk to the chalkboard and the time they glued every other page of his Gatsby and the time they glued all the pencils in the room into a giant spiky ball--he really needs to ban glue from that class. He figures at least he’ll get a night away from Laura and Cora, and he’ll have plausible deniability that he really did get laid.

Then Stiles is saying, “Just what I needed,” with a cup of the hotel’s complimentary coffee cradled in his hands.

Derek tries desperately to school his face to anything other than stark relief, but he must not quite pull it off because Stiles is saying, “Dude. Did you seriously think… I mean, you are--you _must_ know how _hot_ you are. Hot like _burning_. And that’s not just the part of me that wants to fuck you across the hood of that car talking. That’s the part of me that wants to fuck you anywhere--literally _anywhere_ \--talking.” And Stiles is hooking a finger in his belt loop and tugging him until he’s sandwiching Stiles into the nearest wall. 

When Stiles kisses him, it isn’t a shock. It can’t be a shock--he’s telegraphed the whole thing. But it almost feels like Derek’s whole system is getting shocked. Like his heart stops then starts again, faster than it’s ever run. And without even realizing what’s happening, Derek’s practically mashing Stiles into the wall, grabbing his hair to tilt him to just the right position.

Through the fog of their passion, Derek hears someone saying, “Well, I’ve never,” and then Stiles is pulling his magic trick again, eeling himself out of Derek’s grasp. 

“Room key?” he says, holding out his hand.

*

Sex before the full moon is always good. Everything is heightened. It’s almost like he has a special connection to his partner. But with Stiles--

They stumble into the room, Stiles racing a bit ahead of him, laughing in the back of his throat. Derek pounces, knocking him into the bed and the laughter increases. And they’re kissing again. And Derek feels like he’s on fire.

He pulls his shirt off and Stiles growls. “Has anyone ever thanked your mother for making you? Because this? She might be some kind of deity to create something like you.”

Derek swallows, throws his shirt to the side. He throws himself back on top of Stiles, buries his face in Stiles’ throat, smells the sweet scent of boy and light aftershave. Stiles kisses the top of his head, then he’s pushing him down, using the hold he has on Derek’s hair to direct him to exactly where he wants him. 

It’s dangerous. Derek’s control is at an incredible low with the full moon so near. He could drop fang without any notice. But that doesn’t stop him from undoing the button, unzipping the zipper. 

Stiles is wearing Batman boxers--he says “Laundry day,” but Derek thinks he’d be able to tell it for a lie even if he wasn’t a werewolf. He kicks pants and boxers together until they reach the shoes that he’s still wearing. And then he’s laying there, legs trapped together and cock standing up, bright red and wet at the tip. 

Derek can’t help but lean down and breathe in the musky scent of precum. His tongue is darting out to taste when Stiles yelps, “Condom!” Derek just stares at him for a second, his brilliantly sweet eyes, entranced, and then Stiles is saying, “Oh don’t try to pull that ‘don’t you trust me,’ crap. I don’t care if--”

“Condom,” Derek says and reaches in his pocket to slip one out. It’s then, with the evidence near at hand, that he realizes how hard he is himself. He gives himself a quick squeeze, then he’s tearing open the condom packet and unrolling it over Stiles’ dick. His mouth follows right after the condom, and when Stiles groans, he can’t help but groan along. He traces his tongue over Stiles’ slit, then over the bottom of the head. He lets his mouth bob down. Again. Again. And then he bobs down and gives a strong suck.

And Stiles groans like he’s dying and comes.

He lies there, red-faced and panting and says, “Well, excuse me while I just curl up into a ball and die of embarrassment, mmkay?”

Derek laughs. He can’t help it. A chuckle just comes out.

“Are you laughing at me?” Stiles says. And then he’s getting hit with a pillow. And then Stiles is laughing and Derek is trying to tickle him any place he can reach. “Uncle,” Stiles says, “uncle.”

Derek kisses him, and somehow, the kiss is almost sweet. “Latex,” Stiles says, nose scrunched.

“Condom,” Derek responds, low.

“Do you want to fuck me?” Stiles says, barely above a whisper, and in the dimness of the room it feels less like a question and more like a confession.

“Yeah,” Derek says, a low rumble.

“Yeah,” Stiles says.

They make out. They make out for what feels like hours. They make out like kids who don’t plan on doing anything more than making out. It’s so good. Derek’s not sure this part has ever felt this good. 

And when Stiles digs the lube out of his pocket, and when Stiles kicks himself out of his shoes and pants and boxers, and when Stiles lubes his own fingers and fingers himself, it all blends together. And then suddenly, Stiles is undoing Derek’s pants, and it’s like time freezes. Stiles rolls the condom on Derek’s dick, and then he’s guiding Derek into him. His face scrunches up and Derek says, “Hey, are you--” he swallows-- “do you need me to stop.”

“No, just--” Stiles squeezes down on the head of his dick, and then he’s sighing and saying, “Jesus I didn’t think--” He uses all the leverage he has, lying on his back with a big hulk of a man propped on top of him to screw himself down on Derek’s dick. “Go. On good man. On.”

“Stiles,” Derek says, and he’s linking their hands together, staring at him, while starting a slow rocking thrust.

“Gh-good,” Stiles says. “Yeah. Right th-there.” His cock goes from half-hard back to fully hard. 

Derek tries a slow grind, and Stiles _groans_ like someone is killing him. And then Derek loses the thread a bit, he starts fucking in and in and in to Stiles, and then _grinding_. And the angle’s wrong. He’s not getting where he needs to get. So he lets go of Stiles’ hands, grabs him by the hair and the ass, and he’s shifting until he’s sitting, with Stiles on top of him. 

He can’t help but let go then, hips pistoning, up and up and up, and Stiles is moaning, Stiles is screaming, Stiles is _coming_ in a great, sticky white spray all over his chest. And like that, his balls just unload shot after shot of cum into the condom, into Stiles. 

“Wow,” Stiles says, sometime later.

“Yeah,” Derek says.

“So, I know that I’m not supposed to say this, but, like, can we do this again?” Stiles says.

Derek curls into him, looks him in the eyes and says, “Yeah.”

With Stiles--

It feels like Stiles is _his_.

“Yeah,” Derek says, and falls into sleep.

*

When Derek wakes up, Stiles is gone.

*


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek deals with one full moon and two terrible sisters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still unbeta'd. I'm not sure what to do about warnings for this one as they're pretty spoilery. So anyone who's concerned about the relationship contained herein feel free to email me? 
> 
> Thanks for anyone who left a comment so far!

Derek should shower. He should shower and burn his clothes and go through the car wash that does interiors.

Instead he calls Laura.

She meets him in the parking lot, where Cora--’take a shower, bro, you _reek_ ’--drops her off.

“Derek--” she just looks at him for a minute, then she’s giving him a little shove and saying, “come on, get in the car.”

They’re about five minutes into their drive when Laura says, “So…” She lets it hang, like the proverbial rope with which he’ll doubtless hang himself.

Derek’s never liked to talk about his feelings. Even with Laura. But for some reason, riding in a car, it always feels like a sacred space. He can remember riding with his mom, talking about whatever stupid problems he had at ten, twelve, fourteen--and something about her not being able to really look at him made it okay.

But despite that, the words seem to leave him now. He manages a half-strangled,”Laura,” and then his words all dry up.

“What happened, Der-bear?” Laura says. She turns and gives him a quick glance. “Come on, tell your big sis what happened.”

“I don’t know for sure, but I think he’s--” Derek swallows. “They’re--” He feels stupid, is _so_ glad Cora isn’t here to hear this shit. “They might be...”-- _the one for me_ he doesn’t say.

Laura glances at him sharply, but just as quickly, she’s looking away, back to the road. “You mean you have a crush?”

Derek shakes his head.

“Like? A lot?”

Derek shakes his head.

“Love? Are in love with?”

Derek shakes his head more slowly. “I mean, mates?” he says.

The only cue he has that Laura’s heard him is an increase in her heart rate. 

“I know it’s too soon to know…”

“No,” Laura says. “You were too young, I think. But when Peter met Sasha, it was less than a week before he knew. And Mom and Dad always said they knew as soon as they saw each other.”

Derek snorts, “Yeah, right.”

“Yeah,” Laura says. “Right.” She casts a quick look at him again. “What happened?”

“It was my fault. I put too much stock in it, you know? He--” Derek clears his throat, says, “uh, they… were a human.”

“ _He_ \--” Laura says, sharp-- “ _he_ was Derek.”

Derek tries to turn away, pull in on himself but Laura doesn’t let him. “There’s nothing wrong with…” she reaches and tugs his chin until he’s meeting her eyes, traffic light thankfully red. “Derek, you know we’ll love you no matter what.”

“But Peter--”

But Laura cuts him off before he can get started. “Even Peter.” At the honk of a car horn, she lets him go, pushes down on the gas. “Derek, you _know_ how much he loves you. Just because he’s a dark bastard doesn’t change how he feels about you.”

“He’ll make fun of me,” Derek says and even he can tell how much he sounds like a teenager.

“Of course he’ll make fun of you, Derek. It’s just his way of showing love.” 

Derek rolls his eyes.

“So, mates, huh?” Laura says, and he can tell that she’s really, really happy for some reason. “When do I get to meet him?”

Derek tears his hands through his hair. “You don’t.”

“Don’t be a dick, Derek,” she says, slapping his thigh.

“I’m _not_ being a dick, _Laura_ ,” he says. And then, for some reason, he’s shaking. “I’m never going to see him again.”

Laura turns to him again. The car in the next lane honks as she gets too close for their comfort. She honks back then seems to think better of it and pulls into the nearest parking lot. “Derek. What the hell happened? You guys had sex, you and your mate made sweet sweet love. And he, what? Got cold feet? How long have you been dating?”

Derek feels his face turn red. 

“You. Are. Dating. Please tell me you’re dating.”

Derek looks at her.

“Seriously? Okay, but you exchanged phone numbers, right? Please tell me you exchanged phone numbers.”

Derek looks away from her.

“Emails?” There’s a pause and then she says, “tinder profiles?” When he still hasn’t responded for a few minutes she says, “ _Seriously_ , Derek?”

“It was just a hook up. I didn’t know he was my mate.” Derek says, making himself as small in the passenger seat as he can.

Eventually Laura sighs and says, “ _Tell_ me you at least have a _name_.”

“Stiles?”

“Stiles. Well, I guess we can thank hipsters for their ‘original’ appellations.“ She taps her fingers on the steering wheel a few times, and says, “What are you going to do, Der?”

“Nothing,” Derek says. “Make it through the full moon, and then… I mean, what can I do? I can’t exactly stalk him.”

Laura seems to get lost in thought for a few minutes, and then she’s turning on her blinker, pulling back into the flow of traffic. “We’ll figure it out,” she says. “I’ll talk to Deaton, see if he has any ideas.” 

“Right,” Derek says, squirming. Deaton’s a dick.

“Oh. And Derek?” Laura says, grabbing his hand in hers.

“Yeah,” Derek says, turning to her.

“Cora was right. You really should take a shower.”

The honks that follow the proceeding slap-fight are entirely worth it.

*

That night’s full moon is different than it’s been since he was in his late teens. The draw to find Stiles makes him feel like he’s going out of his skin. He can tell before the moon’s even close to rising he’ll have trouble controlling himself, so Laura locks him in the basement.

The hardest part--the scariest part--is that he doesn’t remember anything from that night.

He wakes up the next morning with the few pieces of furniture he’d started the evening with smashed to smithereens and truly massive gouges in the steel door.

He’s pretty sure he’s done as much damage to himself as he’s done to the room. While there’s no bruises or broken bones remaining, his hands and feet are covered with dried blood and his body is filled with the kind of bone-deep lethargy that equates to hours of healing.

“Derek,” Laura says some nebulous amount of time later, “breakfast!” It’s accompanied by the click of the lock in its track. 

He gets up, groaning like an old man. His bones ache like they haven’t since he was a teenager and still growing into _both_ of his bodies. He makes it up the stairs and into the bathroom, but the sight that greets him almost stops him in his tracks.

The blood isn’t limited to his hands and feet. For some reason, his back is covered in blood, some still oozing from broken skin. And his face is as crimson as the first time he caught a rabbit. 

“Derek,” Laura’s voice comes unexpectedly from the door. Derek tries to grab a towel to cover the worst of the damage, but he doesn’t manage it in time. “Jesus!”

“What’s up?” Cora’s voice joins Laura’s in the hall, “Dude. That is sick!”

“A little privacy, please?” Derek says, and slams the door in their faces. 

He showers in as much solitude as he can get. That’s one of the worst things about being a werewolf--never truly having space to himself. When he gets out, Laura and Cora are sitting at the kitchen table in a suspiciously typical way. He makes to walk past them and go to his room to change. He pretends not to hear Cora snickering when she sees his back.  
When he comes back out in his usual button down shirt, tie, and v-neck sweater, Laura says, “Breakfast,” with a too-big smile, setting down a perfectly warm plate by his chair. 

Derek sits cautiously and pokes through the toast, making sure there are no bugs or other ‘surprises’--it wouldn’t be the first time, after all--Cora has a truly fiendish sense of humor. When he’s as certain as can be that everything is more-or-less normal--well, as normal as possible, Laura’s cooking ability leaves something to be desired, with the slight rubberiness to the eggs and the singed edges of the pancakes--he starts eating. 

The food tastes good, of course, but his appetite makes it seem much better than it probably is. It’s always difficult to get enough calories the day after the full moon. “So, Cora,” Laura says, as soon as his mouth is good and full. “What do _you_ think about Derek calling in sick today?” 

“Well,” Cora says, tearing into an orange rind with her bright red nails, “considering that his back looks like ground hamburger and he sounds like an ungreased hinge, I think that _might_ be a good idea.”

Derek chews--and chews and chews--enough to swallow his mouthful of food. “No,” he says, and tears off another bite of food. 

“What if I tell Principal Martin you have a concussion and not to let you in today whether you want to be there or not?” Laura says. 

“What if I tell Principal Martin _you_ have a concussion and that’s why you, my sister, are calling my _boss_ , which, in case you didn’t realize, is not something real people do in the real world.”

Cora turns to Laura and says, “We could handcuff him,” which is just Cora being obnoxious until she _pulls a pair of handcuffs from her back pocket._

“Sweet,” Laura says, and grabs them. 

“ _Oh my_ GOD _Cora_ \--where did you get _handcuffs_?” Derek says, backing away from the table. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Cora says, with a smirk. 

“Wait, where _did_ you get the handcuffs?” Laura says.

“Peter,” Cora says, with the ‘obviously,’ left unsaid.

Laura drops the handcuffs on the floor. “Oh my god, there’s not enough hand sanitizer in the world,” she says, running to the kitchen sink.

Cora picks the cuffs back up and fiddles with the lock a few times. “I don’t know why you’re such a prude. Don’t you know that bondage is the new anal?”

“My ears! Are they bleeding? They feel like they’re bleeding.”

Derek slinks out while they’re distracted. 

*

His first three periods of the day are actually fairly mellow, for a wonder. He’s pretty sure half the kids in first period are hungover. Normally he’d be thinking about whether it would be more hurtful or helpful to send another email out to the parents to warn about the perils of underage drinking, but today he’s just grateful for the relative peace. 

Fourth period seems like it’s also going to be fairly calm. They’re covering the Greeks, so he digs up an old episode of Xena and is about to put it on when there’s a knock on his door and Principal Martin walks in. She’s talking to someone, another student probably, with a pig shave for hair and bulky too-large clothes on his lanky frame. She leaves the student facing away from them, toward the class and stops to pull Derek aside to the corner of the classroom. “Mr. Hale, I hate to drop this on you last minute, but you never responded to my email?” The statement seems perfectly sweet, but Derek can feel the steel underneath. 

“Sorry, family commitment this weekend,” Derek says. “What can I do for you, Ms. Martin?”

She arches a perfect eyebrow at him and gestures at where the the boy is standing. “We have a new student at Beacon Hills High,” she says. “Miguel?”

The boy turns, and it’s like the kind of slow motion turn that can only be found in a horror movie. A pair of big brown eyes look at him in curiosity for a second, and then they’re meeting his own in recognition instead and--

“Shit.”

His class bursts out into a mix of heckling and laughter.

 

*


End file.
